


zero beat

by SpaceRat



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceRat/pseuds/SpaceRat
Summary: Mickey turns around, sees Ian making his way over to him. He’s got this fond, dopey smile that on any other night might be completely innocent. Sweet, even. But Mickey knows Ian better than he knows the tattoos on his own goddamn hands, and he doesn’t miss the cocky edge in the way Ian’s looking at him.Or, dumb Christmas fluff.





	zero beat

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to a bunch of people: Yo, Meli, AJ, Kenny, Moni and Pat. Without you this fic would literally not exist. I love you. Happy New Year. <3
> 
> And all my thanks go to everyone who beta-read this, you have no idea how helpful you've all been. Cheers.

Their apartment is a fucking mess.

While Ian is dealing with the unending mountain of dishes that’s left in the wake of every Gallagher family gathering, Mickey is in the process of clearing out the boxes and ribbons and newspaper sheets that all the presents had been wrapped in. He plows through the living room, tossing all the crap into a garbage bag until he runs into the Sun-Times comics pages, the ones that Ian had bundled a scarf and sweater in. Those he sets aside. They’ve got Garfield on them, and he’ll want to read that later.

“The hell did all this tinsel come from?” Mickey says, picking some of the metallic strands scattered on the floor. The mistletoe is one thing—Ian had insisted on it because, apparently, “we need something festive, Mick. Something other than just a tree.” Mickey had only relented because between the mistletoe and the hideous elf display Ian found at the dollar store, the choice was fucking obvious. And if he gets a kiss every time Ian catches him under it, that’s just more proof that he made the right damn decision. But tinsel? He does not remember ever agreeing to _anything_ about fucking tinsel.

“Think Debbie brought it over,” Ian says as he emerges from the kitchen to fiddle with the radio tuner. “Saw her and Frannie hanging it earlier.”

“They do it blindfolded or something? It’s fucking everywhere.” There’s bits hanging off the side of the television, tucked in between the folds of their dinky two-seater couch, even sticking out from underneath the goddamn rug. Not that any of this is an issue for Ian; he’s still firmly focused on tinkering with the dial.

“Come on Mick, where’s your Christmas spirit?” he asks. His nose scrunches up as he tries to get the radio to play more music and less static. It’s kinda cute.

“Right here,” Mickey says, holding up the whiskey he’d cracked open once everyone had left. He and takes a good, long swig straight from the bottle because he fucking deserves it. Ian peers over at him, grins, shakes his head. Mickey hides his smile behind another pull from the whiskey bottle.

There’s a little _ha!_ when Ian finally gets the station tuned to his liking, though it honest-to-god still sounds as crackly as it did when he first turned the piece of shit on. It’s been going all day, playing carol after goddamn carol since long before the Gallagher herd filed into their place with armfuls of food and gifts and whatever the hell else Ian had told them to bring.

Because, obviously, Ian was the one who had orchestrated this thing, giving Mickey a certified spiel about how it was gonna be their first Christmas in their new home and how that somehow warranted special commemoration or whatever. Mickey didn’t get it, but then Ian had done that thing where his eyes get wide as saucers, and his smile goes all sentimental and crap, saying, “They’re family.” And shit, Mickey would’ve had to be deaf, dumb and blind to miss how much that meant to Ian.

So that’s how they ended up with all of Ian’s siblings plus a few extras—mainly Debbie’s ankle-biter and a couple of significant others that Mickey doesn't see the point in remembering just yet—crammed into their place, eating and drinking and, all things considered, not having the worst time in the world. Ian had even managed to track down Mandy, but she’s apparently all the way in California, living it up with some rich asshole so no shit she couldn't make it. Mickey isn't too broken up about it. As it is, he never liked big gatherings, and with Ian's entire family tree present it was plenty crowded already. At least he knows his sister is getting by alright.

Mickey goes to dump the garbage bag that’s overflowing by now and comes back to find Ian gathering the last of the dishes, humming along to a country-ish song about some chump getting blue balls during Christmas. He’d bet a week’s supply of Marlboros that the it’s fifth damn time tonight that the same song is playing. Still, he can’t find it in himself to complain, not when he catches sight of Ian’s easy smile as he does a tipsy spin on his way into the kitchen. What a fucking dork. Mickey loves it.

They’re almost done, not a whole lot left to do, thank fuck. Their apartment is a puny thing, barely qualifies as a one-bedroom, so it doesn’t take much to muck it up, but clearing all the shit away always takes ages. And after a Gallagher-style Christmas gathering, the place was left looking like a merry fucking whirlwind tore right through it. Mickey bends down, gets his fingers around the edge of the coffee table they shoved over into the corner of the room to make more space for everyone. He’s about to lug it back to where it usually sits in the middle of the living room when he hears Ian from behind him.

“Wait, no, don’t move it yet.”

“What?” Mickey turns around, sees Ian making his way over to him. He’s got this fond, dopey smile that on any other night might be completely innocent. Sweet, even. But Mickey knows Ian better than he knows the tattoos on his own goddamn hands, and he doesn’t miss the cocky edge in the way Ian’s looking at him. “I’m not singing one fucking note, don’t care how drunk you think I am.”

“So you’ve said already. Not gonna make you sing, just... come here, would ya?” Ian says. He holds his hand out to Mickey, palm up, and has the nerve to fucking chuckle when Mickey eyes it warily.

“Please?”

It might be the gentle tone in Ian’s voice, it might be the the way Ian’s eyes have gone all tender, it might even be the whiskey and the fact that they’re closer to sunrise than sunset. Whatever it is, Mickey feels something crack a chink in his resolve. He sighs, more for show than out of genuine irritation, and takes Ian’s outstretched hand with a mumbled, “Fuck’s sake.” And when he feels warmth spread up his neck and to his ears, it’s definitely because of the whiskey and not anything else.

Ian’s grin turns victorious as he wraps his arms around Mickey’s chest, pulling him in close. Mickey’s own hands instinctively find their place at Ian’s hips. He cocks a brow, waiting, but Ian just stands there smiling as the radio host talks to caller number _whatever_ about their holiday vacation gone wrong.

And right as Mickey opens his mouth to ask him what the fuck he's waiting for, Ian cuts him off, his voice soft and content as he says, “Thank you.”

“The fuck for?”

“For tonight. It was good, having our family here.”

“Our, huh?” Mickey tilts his head to the side, feeling the corner of his mouth tugging up in spite of himself.

“Yeah, _our_ ,” Ian says, looks way too pleased about it. “What’s mine is yours. Got a problem with that?”

It’s corny as all hell, but still, Mickey has to bite his lip to keep his smile from spreading any further. “I ain’t wearing matching Christmas sweaters or whatever the fuck you guys do every year.”

“You see anyone in matching Christmas sweaters tonight?” Ian snarks. He glances to the side, amused. “Pretty sure our only Christmas tradition is sticking a Santa hat on Frank before we dump him on the street like usual.”

“Classy.”

“You guys ever have any traditions?”

“Not really.” Not unless drinking whatever alcohol they could dig up from the back of the cupboards counts. Mickey shrugs. “Mostly just stole Terry’s booze and got wasted in Mandy’s room. Standard shit, y’know.”

Ian snorts, unsurprised, and nods. “Just means we gotta make our own ones now, right?”

“Oh yeah? You got anything in mind?”

“Got a few ideas, yeah.”

And that’s when they begin to sway.

At first it’s just Ian awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then he steps closer to Mickey, sorta starts nudging him along, and Mickey doesn’t catch on until it’s far too late and he’s being led into a slow back-and-forth in time to the music playing from the radio.

“Really?” he says, entirely unimpressed, and it’s mostly at himself because _really,_ he should’ve seen this coming from a fucking mile away.

“Just this once, come on.”

Mickey thinks his general hatred of dancing might have stood even a fraction of a chance if Ian would stop looking at him with this dumb, happy expression. Head tilted, soft eyes, dimpled cheeks still flushed from the eggnog he’d been splashing booze into (not a lot, but enough to get a festive buzz)—that’s all it takes to sweep away the last few crumbs of resistance Mickey’s got in him.

“You’re getting the rest of the goddamn tinsel.”

“I am getting the rest of the goddamn tinsel.” Ian lands a kiss on Mickey’s temple. Mickey  shoots him a glare from the corner of his eye but it’s half-hearted, dulled by the smile he’s completely given up on trying to suppress. He’s in love, alright? The fuck can he do?

They’re dancing to some old-timey song with a gentle melody trickling out of the radio’s shitty speakers. Ian leads them in a slow circle, with his chin resting on Mickey’s shoulder and his hands making a path up Mickey’s back. Mickey twitches a bit when Ian presses the heels of his palms into the muscles along Mickey’s spine.

“Relax, Mick, ‘s just us,” Ian mumbles, “just you and me.”

“I’m plenty relaxed, even with your pointy-ass chin stabbing me.” Mickey exhales and rolls his eyes, not that Ian can see it. He feels Ian smile against his neck, and when Ian finally picks his head up, there’s a chill on Mickey’s skin where his cheek had been a moment ago.

“Better?”

“Much,” Mickey says dryly.

The way Ian holds him a bit closer, it’s like he can tell Mickey’s lying. He’s beaming down at him like some eight-year-old on Christmas morning, and Mickey huffs, flicks his eyes to the tree sitting in a corner of the room. It’s fake, salvaged from the Gallagher basement a few weeks ago along with a bunch of dusty ornaments that no one put much resistance into handing over. Ian and Mickey had spent that night putting up lights and decorations, and for all of Mickey’s grumbling about how unnecessary the whole thing was, it didn’t turn out so bad. It’s sort of raggedy and all over the place, sure, but it wouldn’t really be theirs if it wasn’t bit of a mess.

They rock side to side, moving slowly through the living room as Ian hums to the words of the song. The music is languid, and what Mickey can catch of the lyrics has a sentimentality to it that always comes with this time of the year. It’s the kind of thing that Ian seems genetically predisposed to liking, so it’s not surprising in the slightest when his humming eventually turns into singing, and he follows along with the song, “... a merry little Christmas.”

“You sing too now, Prancer?” Mickey says with a smirk. He’s been working on it, but teasing and deflection are still his defaults when he catches Ian looking at him all warm and loving, which is exactly what the bastard’s doing right now.

“Make the yuletide gay,” Ian keeps going, and Mickey snorts at the emphasis he put on that last word. And when Ian lifts his eyebrows in this absurd little waggle, the quirk of his lips asking for trouble, Mickey gives him a shit-eating grin of his own and frees up a hand to prod him in the side. Ian doubles over in Mickey’s arms, letting out a _hey!_ between giggles that might be described as adorable if the word existed in Mickey’s vocabulary.

“Yeah there you go, wise guy,” he says through a laugh, fully prepared for Ian to retaliate with his own hands or a comment or something. But no, he just curls his arms around Mickey until they're chest-to-chest, smile wide with affection that some time ago used to be _too much_ for Mickey. It’s a lot even now, but he doesn’t run from it, not anymore. Instead, he huffs out a breath and lets his muscles go loose, dropping his head to Ian’s shoulder as he leans into him.

The song takes a turn for the nostalgic and Ian doesn’t sing this time, just hums along to it as they sway together in a gentle rhythm. Mickey closes his eyes, breathes Ian in. His hands curl into the fabric of Ian’s shirt and he feels a touch at the nape of his neck as Ian buries a hand into his hair. Outside, some drunk asshole is hollering out unintelligible bullshit and Ian’s breath is warm against Mickey’s ear when he chuckles at that.

They stay like this, with Ian combing a hand through Mickey’s hair and humming softly in his ear until the song peters off to an end. On the radio the host comes back, sounding bored and tired and like she just wants to go the fuck home. Mickey can’t really blame her. They’re still in Canaryville, on the second floor of a decrepit building where the neighbours fucking suck and the water runs cold and the walls shake when the L passes by, but it’s this apartment, with an armful of boy, his boy, that Mickey would choose over everywhere else in the world. It’s home.

He’s too damn comfortable to bother moving any time soon, so he stays exactly where he is. Ian’s arms squeeze around him and he says, “Merry Christmas, Mick.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Elvis.” It comes out a bit muffled and Mickey feels Ian’s chest move when he laughs.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he says it with a ridiculous twang. Mickey lifts his head for the sole purpose of shaking it at Ian. Not that Ian cares—his grin only widens and he nods up.

Mickey scoffs when he sees what Ian’s gesturing at. Still, he wastes no time in hooking a hand behind Ian’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. It’s a bit rough around the edges, with tongue and teeth and the frenzy that comes with two southside outcasts finding a home in each other. His fingers move up through Ian’s hair as Ian runs one hand down Mickey’s side, the other coming up to cradle Mickey’s head. When they separate, Mickey darts his tongue out to the corner of his mouth and Ian’s eyes follow it, kinda dazed and dopey-looking for a second, cheeks flushed for reasons that have fuck all to do with booze.

“Mistletoe can come back next year,” he says with a smirk and a raised brow, “but the dancing was a once in a lifetime occurrence.”

“You sure? Because from what I saw, you seemed to have a pretty good time there.”

“You're drunk, you dunno what you saw.”

“Don't make me spin you.” The threat is playful. Mostly.

“Try it and die, Ginger Rogers,” Mickey shoots right back as the radio host is signing off for the night, wishing them happy holidays or whatever the fuck the politically correct turn of phrase is, and a new song starts playing.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know from which point in canon this diverges, I leave that up to you. And yes, they're dancing to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxxTHzERTsk).
> 
> Anyway, come scream with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/SpaceRat313).


End file.
